no poem for death
in memory of E.M.
no poem for death sits perched like dove on edge to fall or fly or go beyond a mystery why my voice cracks and breaks silence like ice melting from just a wintry rain aptly named January. E turned 90 last week and has greatly weakened and any day will be her last I heard labored breathing and saw mouth open wide as bird’s awaiting mom’s return. She gasps and grasps the rosary beads in hand full circle. The beads the count the prayers the joy, sorrow, glory and light. All her days amass to this here and now the oxygen machine fills the room with volume and sound and her grown children circle like a piece of sky with birds in formation. After watching left meditating as details grow distant I can no longer see their wings like they might’ve been painted in a single stroke.
Bright lipstick in the side pocket of the backpack that hung behind her wheelchair. In the back smaller pocket were her keys and dental paste, some papers. I don’t know. Bigger compartment held bingo cards, potato chips, assorted snacks for later, letters, and other things. When I was asked to retrieve something from her bag and put it away, I did what I could. Her bag was ready for her day. She went downstairs for breakfast, then to the lobby until dinner. She loved her family, friends, and her faith.
(I work at an assisted living home. E.M was a resident who is greatly missed.)